Sausage King: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Crescent, Tara

  The logo is a sausage with a cheeky expression on his face and a crown on his head. Everyone who sees it laughs. It’s funny and memorable, and it’s probably responsible for a good quarter of my business.

  “Thank you.” Dakota’s nowhere in sight. I need to catch up with her and apologize for snapping at her earlier. “Listen, I’ve got to run. Call me. We’ll grab a drink and catch up.”

  Dakota’s talking to Tim Pollard in the town hall’s lobby. I wait for her to finish her conversation, and then fall into step with her.

  She frowns at me. “What do you want, Julian?” she snaps.

  “To apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I did. Apart from the fact that it was unforgivably rude, it’s also not true.”

  For a fraction of a second, her expression softens. Then she’s back to cranky. “Sure,” she scoffs. “I’m so memorable, and yet you’re hugging every single woman in a fifty-kilometer radius.”

  I want to pump my fist in the air in celebration. “Jealous, Wilde?”

  “I feel sorry for Rana,” she replies loftily. “Does she know what she’s getting into? The incessant sausage puns are the wurst.”

  I grin. “Did you just make a sausage pun, Wilde? Wurst is a little obvious, but I’ll give you marks for effort.” I give her a sidelong look. “You have nothing to be jealous about. Rana’s father is an old friend.”

  “Once again, I’m not jealous,” she retorts. “You make nice to the person running the contest, King. You’re going to need all the help you can get to avoid elimination in the first round. You’re out of your league, buddy. You’re just a guy with some fancy meat, and everyone else is an experienced restaurateur.”

  “Fancy meat.” I wink at her. “Another compliment. You flatter me, Wilde.” An idea strikes me. “Tell you what. You’re so sure I’m going to get eliminated? Bet on it.”

  She turns to me, her blue eyes intrigued. “A bet? What will I get if I win?”

  She’s biting. “What do you want?”

  Her gaze turns speculative. “You’ll cook in my kitchen for a week,” she says finally.

  “Do your bidding for a week?”

  “Scared, King?”

  I like it when she calls me King. “Intrigued. You’re on. But if I don’t get eliminated in the first round, I win our bet. And I want…”

  She waits for me to continue.

  “I find myself with a very particular fantasy,” I murmur. “If I win, you’ll cook for me. In my kitchen. Naked, wearing nothing but an apron. And you’ll eat with me, still naked. Appetizer, entree…” My voice lowers. “And dessert.”

  Her eyes go wide. Her breath catches. “I thought you said you’d back off.”

  “You don’t have to take the bet, Wilde. Nobody’s twisting your hand. You can just walk away.”

  Say yes, Dakota. Come on. Take one small step toward me.

  Her chin lifts. “And lose out on a week of free labor? I don’t think so. Fine. You’re on, King.”

  Yes! “I’ll be thinking of you tonight.” My voice is low. She steps closer. “I’m going to lie in my bed and picture you in that apron and nothing else.”

  She tilts her head up and parts her lips. Her voice is a breathless whisper. “You are?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I have her exactly where I want her. “I’ll be thinking of you when I touch myself, my darling bratwurst.”

  Outrage wars with laughter in her eyes. Laughter wins. “My darling bratwurst? That’s what you’re going with?”

  Her face lights up when she smiles. “It was either that or ‘sweet relish.’”

  “Jackass.” She looks around and lowers her voice. “I’m going to masturbate tonight too,” she murmurs.

  My cock turns rock hard. “You are?” I stare at her, making no effort to hide my need.

  “Yes, Julian,” she whispers. “I’m going to close my eyes, and I’m going to imagine you beating your schnitzel.”

  Beating my schnitzel.

  “You do realize that making schnitzel involves…”

  “Taking a piece of meat and hammering it with a mallet until it’s paper thin?” Her smile is vicious. “Oh yes, Julian. I absolutely do. That’s exactly what I’m going to be fantasizing about.” She stands up on tiptoe and brushes a kiss over my cheek. “Sleep well tonight, King. I know I will.”

  10

  Dakota

  You know what I hate about Julian?

  He’s funny.

  On any other guy, the cocky master-of-the-universe act would be seriously annoying. But Julian doesn’t take himself seriously. He says the most outrageous things with a twinkle in his eye.

  My darling bratwurst.

  I start to giggle as I walk back to Dakota’s Pizza. When I left town hall, I’d been fuming at their high-handed actions. Now, I can’t stop laughing. It was either that or ‘sweet relish.’

  He’s a dangerous guy, Julian King.

  Later that night, I get back home, shower and change into my sleep shorts and a tank top. I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine.

  And my thoughts boomerang back to Julian, back to that first night. Back to when things had been so much simpler.

  I settle on my couch and set the glass next to me. The memories from that fateful day flood my mind, one after the other.

  I’d noticed him as soon as I’d walked into the Madison Brewpub. He was sitting with Zach and Penny and some of their friends. He’d been wearing a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was dark and slightly mussed. He had a tattoo on his forearm. From where I stood, it looked like a quote of some sort, but I couldn’t read it.

  He was gorgeous, but that’s not the reason I looked twice.

  No. It was the confidence. He leaned back in his chair, a beer in front of him, and a lazy smile playing about on his lips. Then Zach said something, and his smile widened. The dimple on his chin deepened.

  Then he’d lifted his eyes up, as if he’d felt the weight of my stare. Our gazes had locked.

  For a second, the pub had disappeared. The noise had faded away. The rest of the crowd receded to the background, and the only person that mattered was the hot stranger staring at me.

  Zach had seen me, waved me over. I’d squeezed in next to the guy. “Hi,” he’d said, not waiting for Zach to introduce us. “I’m Julian King.”

  “Dakota Wilde.”

  Zach had introduced me to the rest of his friends. “Julian’s my hotshot lawyer,” he’d finished.

  Julian’s smile had widened. “Not exactly.” He’d turned to me, and my breathing had faltered under the effect of that smile. “Dakota,” he’d said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. “Can I buy you a beer?”

  It hadn’t been the most original of pick-up lines. It hadn’t mattered. He’d said my name and my heart had almost jumped out of my chest.

  We’d talked for a little while. Nothing important, nothing personal. Those were my rules.

  Every time Julian asked me a question about myself, I’d deflected it. Did Julian catch what I was doing? Probably. Julian isn’t stupid.

  That night though, it hadn’t been about communication, or feelings, or emotions.

  It had been about sex. Raw, carnal, sex.

  Had it really? You could have gone to his hotel room. Instead, you brought him back here. To your house. You slept with him in your bedroom.

  I push that inconvenient voice away and take a gigantic gulp of my wine.

  He’d sat down on this very couch. “Come here,” he’d said, his voice low and intent, his hot eyes not attempting to disguise his lust.

  He’d pulled me down on his lap. Threaded his hands through my hair and pulled me close. His chocolate brown eyes had locked on mine. “Dakota.”

  “Julian,” I’d whispered. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  He’d run his thumb over my lower lip. I’d sucked his finger into my mouth, and his eyes had turned hooded. “Dakota,” he’d said. “I’m going to do a whole lot more than that.”
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  His lips had crashed into mine.

  I slide my hand down my shorts, thinking about the way Julian’s hand had squeezed my throbbing breasts. My insides tighten. My nipples are swollen, erect, aching. He’d sucked them between his teeth. “How hard do you like it?” he’d asked, his eyes promising wicked sin.

  “Keep going,” I’d replied, throwing my head back and letting my body dance at the knife edge of pleasure and pain.

  “So fucking sexy.” He’d watched the desire wash over my face. Watched the way I bit my lip. A smile had flickered over his lips as I’d hissed. “Too hard, Dakota?”

  “Keep going,” I’d said again.

  I’m soaked. My body remembers Julian King, and it wants more. My pussy is slick. My fingers find my clit, and I circle the tight bud.

  My nipples had throbbed the next day. I’d felt it every time I moved, and I’d savored the twinge of pain. It helped me remember the most incredible night of my life.

  He’d gone down on his knees. Right here. He’d spread my thighs apart. Yanked my panties aside. He’d stopped then, and his eyes had feasted me in. “So fucking pretty,” he’d murmured. “You’re gorgeous, Dakota.”

  A shiver wracks my body. My insides are heavy with need. I pinch my nipples, close my eyes and imagine Julian next to me, his teeth white against my skin, nipping my tender peaks. “Still harder, naughty girl?”

  “Keep going,” I’d clenched out for the third time.

  He’d laughed then. He pulled me close and kissed me deep. “You’re fearless, aren’t you?” he’d whispered against my lips. “You’re driving me crazy.”

  I’m not fearless. I’m the biggest coward in the world. But sore nipples heal easier than a broken heart.

  He’d thrust his fingers deep into me, his clever tongue still toying with my clit, and that had been the final push I’d needed. I’d exploded, shaking, writhing, my climax washing over me in relentless waves.

  He’d sat back up on the couch. “Get back here,” he’d ordered, patting his lap. His bulge had been clearly visible underneath his pants. I’d run my palm over it, and he’d thrown his head back, pleasure etched on his face. “Fuck me, that feels good.”

  I work my clit, Julian’s remembered voice whispering encouragement in my ears. “Come for me, baby,” he’d murmured as he’d worked me over yet again. I’d been on his lap, grinding my ass on his cock. He wouldn’t let me close my eyes. “You want this orgasm? Look at me. Keep your eyes open.”

  The moment had been intimate, far too intimate for a one-night stand. I should have ignored his words. I should have closed my eyes and hidden from him.

  But I wanted it too. The thought of being that vulnerable should have made me flinch away, but I’d wanted him to see me fall apart.

  So, I had. I’d looked into his eyes, and I’d let myself shatter.

  Is Julian doing this now, in his cottage? Is he sitting on his couch too, or is he lying in bed, fisting his thick, fat cock? Is he thinking of me, the way I’m thinking of him?

  Or is he picturing schnitzel? Is he picturing me pounding a piece of meat with a mallet, and wincing at the mental image? Has he dismissed me as someone who’s not worth the hassle?

  Vicki doesn’t understand why I’m mean to Julian. I’m not sure I can articulate it either. The snark is protection. I need it to survive.

  He’d rolled a condom on. Right here, on this couch. He’d loomed over me. Taken his cock in his hand and teased my opening. “You want this?”

  “Yes,” I’d breathed. “Please.”

  “Good,” he’d replied. Then he’d thrust into me, hard and deep. His fingers had dug into my hips. I’d braced myself, one leg on the floor, another on the couch, every nerve in my body coming alive as he pounded me, relentless, driven, powerful.

  My insides twist and coil. My toes brace against my rug as I shudder, right there on the edge. I picture Julian, his eyes closed, his hand stroking his throbbing cock. And it’s that image that pushes me over. My climax rips through me, and it leaves me limp and drained.

  But not sated. For that, I need Julian.

  Is that why you took his bet, Dakota? You’re hoping he won’t be eliminated, and you’ll be forced to cook him dinner naked except for an apron. You want Julian again, but you won’t admit it. You want to be backed into a corner. You want him to win.

  Ugh. I drain the rest of my wine, but this time, it doesn’t shut down my inner voice. It mocks me all night long, delivering uncomfortable truths, telling me things I’m not ready to hear.

  11

  Julian

  Of course, I masturbate that night. Not even the schnitzel imagery is enough to quell my hard-on. I lie in bed and close my eyes, and I imagine Dakota, wearing an apron and nothing else. She's holding a can of whipped cream, and her eyes are hot with lust.

  Her gaze drops to my erection, and then she gets down on her knees. “Let me take care of that for you,” she purrs.

  Then she sprays the whipped cream on my dick.

  Fuck me, my imagination is good. I almost come from that visual.

  Back to the fantasy.

  Dakota looks up at me, her lips curling into a wickedly sexy smile. “Dessert is my favorite part of the meal.” She takes me deep into her mouth, her pretty little lips wrapped around my length, her eyes fixed on me.

  Oh fuck.

  I throw my head back and groan. My hand fists my cock as my fantasies run rampant. Dakota’s pretty pink tongue licking whipped cream off my cock. Her brilliant blue eyes, dazed with desire. Her tight little pussy, slick with arousal.

  My hand moves faster and faster, and then I erupt with a muffled shout.

  God, I have it bad for her.

  I get up to clean the mess, and then sink back into bed.

  I’m going to close my eyes, and I’m going to imagine you beating your schnitzel.

  I can’t bite back my grin. Schnitzel. Her eyes had gleamed wickedly when she told me she’d be masturbating to images of my cock being pounded with a mallet.

  Maddening woman.

  Then again, she didn't back away from the bet. I told her exactly what I wanted. To be perfectly honest, I’d expected her to run. After all, she’s run every other time.

  But this time, she hadn't.

  She’d stood her ground, lifted that stubborn chin in the air, and told me that she was in.

  Yes!

  I talked to Ward over the weekend. “What's so special about this girl?” he’d asked. “I don't think I've ever seen you chase someone.”

  He's right; I haven't. I've never looked for something serious. There were always plenty of women in Toronto who were just as busy with their own careers, who were looking for exactly what I was. An uncomplicated hookup, and nothing more.

  I’ve never thrown myself at a woman this way before. Sometimes, I ask myself if it's worth it.

  The answer is always yes.

  Three years ago, I’d run my first marathon on a whim. I had a sedentary job, and once I hit my thirties, I was starting to feel out of shape. So, I set a goal.

  At first, getting up in the morning to go for a run, especially in winter, was excruciating. I would do all kinds of things to keep myself motivated. Set up fun playlists, put my shoes right by the door, you name it, I did it. Yet every morning, when the alarm went off, I'd lie in bed and ask myself if the run was worth it.

  The moment my feet hit the curb, the moment the crisp, cold dawn air slapped my face, I had my answer.

  Dakota is like that early morning run.

  I put myself out there, over and over again, and I keep getting shot down.

  I tell her I want to date her; she tells me I don't know my own mind. I make the most outrageous sausage jokes to get a reaction from her, and she responds with snark. Don't get me wrong, the snark is hilarious, and I love that Dakota can give back as good as she gets. Somebody who agrees with me all the time would bore me to tears.

  But—and trust me, I’m well aware of how pathetic I sound�
�I wish I knew where I stood with her.

  This time, she hadn't said no.

  Now all I have to do is make sure that I don't fuck up.

  I spent most of Thursday morning making sausages. In the afternoon, once I'm done, I clean up, take a quick shower, and head over to The Frozen Spoon to see how Ben Watanabe is making out.

  Ben and two of his crew members are already there when I arrive. “King,” Ben greets me. “I thought I might run into you here.”

  Yeah, yeah, I’m a control freak. “I dropped by to see how you're making out.”

  “I'm fine,” Ben says. He jerks his head toward the building. “Mrs. Shepperd, on the other hand…” His voice trails away.

  I have a strange memory. I don't remember names very well, but numbers stick in my head. Today is the one-year anniversary of the day Jim Shepperd died.

  That's why she's upset.

  I suppress a groan. I don't want to talk to Beth Shepperd. I never know what to say in these situations. Empathy isn't really my thing. Someone like Dakota would know exactly what to say to comfort Mrs. Shepperd. Me? I'm about as useful as a lump of cheese.

  She has friends in Madison, I tell myself. I shift my feet uncomfortably and avoid making eye contact with Watanabe. “Yeah,” I mutter. “It's the day her husband died.”

  He frowns. “It is? I didn't realize that. But that's not why she's upset. She got some new notice from the city. They're harassing her again.”

  For one brief second, I contemplate not getting involved.

  Mrs. Shepperd still hasn't committed to selling her restaurant to me. The wheelchair ramp wasn't expensive to install, but the deck is going to cost between ten and fifteen thousand dollars. The permit cost another five hundred, not to mention the aggravation of having to participate in a reality TV contest because of it.

  I'm getting sucked in, deeper and deeper, committing both time and money to The Frozen Spoon, all of it on the assumption that Mrs. Shepperd is going to sign on the dotted line.

  But she hasn't signed yet.